by Tommy Vollman
I was feeding short-hops to Harrison Bruce when four clubbies clattered out of the home-team tunnel and set a few massive, metal buckets along the dugout wall farthest from the bat rack.
“What are those for?” Harrison asked, his brow furrowed, face all screwed up.
He and I stood just in front of the dugout rail in foul territory.
“Cabbage leaves,” one of the clubbies growled. His sudden smile broke the tension. “Frozen ones. Put ‘em in your hats. Shoes, too,” he added. “Hot as hell out there.” He reached in his back pocket and unrolled a near-empty pack of sunflower seeds. “That turf’ll cook you if you let it.”
I was certain he was messing around, tugging the chains of a couple of 16-year-olds over-the-moon about playing on a real big-league diamond, in a real big-league stadium, for the first time.
Harrison and I stared at the clubbie, unsure whether to laugh or nod or just walk away. His name, I’d learn, was Jensen, and he had a messy, black rose tattoo on the back of his right hand.
He was a hard, wiry fellow whose salt-and-pepper hair peeked out from underneath a Reds hat so stained and faded from sweat and the sun that it was very nearly pink on the back panels and around the tape.
I didn’t try the cabbage leaf thing until the bottom of the third inning, and I never put any in my shoes. Brooks Hadley and Kyle Tremaine did but not because they were hot; Hadley and Tremaine put leaves in their shoes because no one else had.
We all lost our minds that day—or at least we should’ve. Jensen was right, the turf was unbearably hot, and the air held a certain stale, humid scent. Breathing, while not quite a chore, wasn’t the rote, automatic thing we’d all come to expect.
***
In the top of the sixth, I was out in center, nearly hypnotized by the heat waves that rose off the turf in thick, silver ripples. They bent the ground and dissolved the pitcher, batter, and all of second base. My eyes narrowed and contracted, my pupils dried, and I wondered if my vision might simply give out. Then, as if roused from a fever dream, I heard the unnatural ping of an aluminum barrel amplified by the closed-circle that was Riverfront Stadium. Jacob Everly ripped a ball up the middle over the bag at second. I charged it, then lost it for a moment as it snaked through the heat ripples. I opted not to drop down to one knee, working instead to field it off my glove-side foot. I prayed it wouldn’t slither past me, or worse, pop up and bite me in the face.
Luckily, it didn’t do either. The ball emerged, a rolling mirage, and I attacked it. Everly was slow out of the box, and he stumbled as he approached first base. Clint Jackson had been on second with the judicious lead of a less-than-fleet catcher. Clint, who must’ve thought there was a chance that Everly’s shot might get gloved up the middle, hesitated on his break. His head twisted to the left as the ball skirted over the second-base bag. I saw him, in a peripheral sense, legging to third as I scooped the ball off the boiling turf. I’d worked exchanges so much as an outfielder, I swore I could do them wearing oven mitts, and as Clint Jackson spiked third base in his fullest stride, I made perhaps the best exchange of my life. My right hand was a magnet, the ball pure nickel, as I crow-hopped and threw an absolute seed to the plate.
About the same time I delivered my throw from shallow centerfield, Clint Jackson morphed into an unhinged tractor-trailer. His bulky frame barreled toward home plate, its momentum both compromised and somehow empowered by the 180-feet sprint. Whether Jackson intended to slide wasn’t completely clear, but the collision that stemmed from his half-roll, non-committal head-first tumble sent Jimmy Becker to the hospital with a broken clavicle, a three-inch gash above his left eye, and a concussion. The end result was me behind the plate for the first time in nearly four years. But catching is like riding a bike, and after six or seven warm-up pitches, I was back in the saddle, feeling comfortable and confident. That confidence, it turned out, was my undoing.
***
But before that, before I trotted into the dugout to put on Blake Texter’s catcher’s gear because I didn’t even have my own set anymore, and before they helped Jimmy Becker to his feet and marched him off the field, into the dugout, down the steps, and through the clubhouse, I watched my throw sail to the plate and thought: There’s a chance, a goddamned chance. But then Jackson slammed into Becker, and I saw the ball shoot out of Becker’s glove on account of the impact. Becker’s face mask went flying, Clint Jackson lost his helmet, and my chance was gone.
The game stopped as the trainers and coaches attended to Jimmy Becker. Clint Jackson was shaken up a bit, but Becker took the brunt, lying partially curled up on his left side as Coach Dietrich crouched beside him.
I took a knee in centerfield, then opted to stand; the turf was just too goddamned hot. I squinted in at the trainers and wondered about Becker. As I tugged at the laces of my glove, Connor Semlin strolled over from left field.
“Did you see it?” he chattered through a toothy smile.
“See what?” I puzzled.
Connor shook his head and ran his palm along the back of his sweat-drenched neck. “The leaves, man,” he chuckled. “The goddamned cabbage leaves.”
Connor was tall and thin, and his long legs were filled with the kind of speed most folks could only wish for. He was rangy and could close on fly balls better than just about anyone. Finishing, though, was his weakness. The only reason I was in center instead of him was because my glove skills far exceeded his, and even though I wasn’t as fast as Connor Semlin, I closed just fast enough, and I always finished. Always. It was really nice, though, to have Connor in left, as he significantly reduced the real estate I would’ve had to cover with someone less speedy.
“They just flew off Becker’s head like a bad toupee,” he laughed. “Goddamned.” Connor grew suddenly serious. “I hope he’s okay, though. Jackson’s a horse, man, and he lit Becks up good.”
I nodded.
“He’s got em in his shoes, too,” Connor added. “Cabbage everywhere,” he chuckled. “Fuckin ’Becks, man.”
I squinted in again. Someone at home plate was yelling, yelling out toward us. Connor turned his head, too.
“They yellin ’for you?” he puzzled.
“Fuck,” I sighed. “I think so.” I shook my head. “Fuck.”
“What?” Connor followed. “What do they want with you, Tyne Darling?”
“Man,” I said. “I think they want me to catch. Goddamnit,” I muttered.
“You?” Connor replied.
I laughed. “Yeah. Me.”
“Since when?”
“It’s been a minute,” I answered. “Like four years of ‘em,” I added.
***
Our team, like almost every other travel team on the planet, carried two catchers. Jimmy Becker, who’d finally made it up to a seated position, was one, and Blake Texter, who’d fallen victim to heatstroke before the game even started, was the other. I was what they called a third alternate, a catcher only in the most dire and extreme sense. But with no other available catchers, it was me or someone out of the stands.
As it turned out, the stands may have been the better option.
***
I put my head down and jogged in toward home plate.
“Go get ‘em, Tyne Darling,” Connor shouted. I looked over my shoulder and saw his smile, big as anything. Connor Semlin’s smile was so genuine, it was impossible to know whether or not he was fucking with me.
I entered the dugout and grabbed Texter’s gear. Becker was on his feet and off the field. He sat at the other end of the bench, surrounded by coaches. Jensen, the clubbie with the hand tattoo, was carrying on about smelling salts.
“Yeah,” he said, mostly to himself, “just snap ‘em near the middle,” he growled. “Like a celery stick.” Little drops of sweat hung, then fell, from the tip of his hooked nose. “That’ll wake Sleeping Beauty. Wake him up good.”
I pounded the pocket of Blake Texter’s mitt and climbed out of the dugout. What kind of catcher, I thought, doesn’t even have his own gear?
***
As I hit the top step, Coach Dietrich whistled. “Tyne,” he chirped.
I turned my head, and he waived me over.
“Real quick,” he said. “You see the signs from center, yeah?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh. I pick ‘em up.”
“You alright with ‘em?”
“Yeah,” I repeated, slower this time. “I think I got ‘em.” I paused. “I got ‘em. Yeah, for sure.”
Coach Dietrich smiled, tipped his chin forward, and stared at me over the top of his gold-rimmed aviators. “Look,” he said, matter-of-factly, “being a catcher’s like being pregnant—you either are or you aren’t.” He put his left hand on my shoulder and pulled off his aviators with his right. “You know what I mean?”
Somewhat tentatively, I nodded. Quickly and with a good deal of expressiveness, Dietrich reviewed the signs.
“Now,” he smiled, “go get some.” He cleared his throat and spit. “Check in over here,” he continued. “I’ll shoot the signs.” He motioned out to Atticus. “He’s got three solid pitches, a fourth with the slider, but that doesn’t work most of the time.”
“Right,” I replied. “So I’ll stay off the slider.”
“Well,” Dietrich said, “don’t worry about that, and for fuck’s sake, don’t tell him I think his slider doesn’t work.” His smile was only slightly smaller than Connor Semlin’s. “I’ve got the calls,” he continued. “You just stay on Reeves. Keep him focused and pull some strikes. Remember,” Dietrich clamored, “catch the outside of the baseball. And,” he added, “relax, man. This is Riverfront. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I answered.
“Don’t thank me,” Dietrich replied. “Thank that freight train that ran over Becks. Jesus,” he sighed. He paused again and his smile disappeared. “Just don’t fuck it up,” he said and smacked my helmet. “Relax,” he continued, “have goddamned some fun.”
“Right,” I stammered, then turned and jogged out toward the home plate cut-out.
***
Atticus Reeves stood atop the bump and rubbed up a brand-new baseball with both hands, his glove tightly tucked under his left armpit. I settled into my crouch and took a few warmups to get a feel for Reeves ’delivery. Texter’s mitt had almost instantly became my own, and I got around ball after ball after ball. With each pitch, I felt more and more steady behind the dish. But belief in myself had always been tricky business; the books were complicated, the account overdrawn.
***
The game resumed, and Reeves got Tyler Driesen to ground out to short on the very first pitch, which kept Everly anchored at second base. The next batter, Kevin Adler, fell behind on two straight fastballs. Up 0-2, I thought change. I looked over to the dugout and saw Dietrich wiggle his fingers. Change-up. I signaled it to Reeves, and after a brief stare, he nodded, set, and delivered. Adler, who must’ve expected gas, jumped way too far in front and swung under the pitch.
“Fuck,” he shouted, as he slammed the barrel of his bat in the dirt.
A massive pop-up shot skyward, loaded with tons of backspin. I tossed off my mask and ranged under the foul floater.
“Mine, mine, mine!” I shouted, then gloved the ball about halfway between home plate and the backstop. I wheeled around and checked Everly at second just in case he had designs to tag up.
I grew more and more confident by the second. My receiving was on point, and my thoughts on five straight pitches were identical to what Dietrich signaled.
I could call a game, I thought. I could call a damn good one.
With two outs, Jeffrey Dufrane stepped up to the plate. Dufrane was a masher, a real power hitter, and I knew Reeves would need to get crafty.
I considered my options and thought: curve. I glanced over at Dietrich to see what he wanted. Dietrich’s hand moved from the brim of his hat to his ear then straight to his back pocket. He thought curveball, as well. I signaled, Reeves nodded, and pulled the string. Dufrane swung through it, fooled by a beautiful 12-6 spinner. Up 0-1, my confidence brimmed. I called for a change, and Reeves shook me off. I glanced to the dugout. Dietrich wanted a change, too. I reset and rolled through the signs a second time, again signaling for a change-up, which Atticus Reeves accepted. Dufrane came with a massive swing, but this time, he sliced the ball straight down off the inside of his front foot. I stepped out in front of the dish and gave Dufrane a moment to walk it off.
The home plate umpire, a crusty fellow named Bruce Davis, handed me a new ball, and his gruff, Marlboro-stained voice rattled, “Alright, alright.” He cleared his throat, spit, and pointed to a still-hobbling Dufrane. “Let’s go now. C’mon.” He smiled a brown, broken-tooth grin. “Unless,” he added, “we’re gettin ’a goddamned body bag.”
Dufrane shook his head, climbed back in the box, and dug in. I glanced at his feet, then hands as he waggled the bat in slow, small loops.
We got him off balance, I thought. We should go back to the spinner.
I turned my head and looked at Dietrich in the dugout. He signaled. Again, we agreed: curveball. I stared out at Reeves and flashed for a curve. Reeves nodded and spiked a spinner that Dufrane took for ball one. Still up 1-and-2, I asked for a change-up. Atticus Reeves shook me off. I rolled through the signs a second time, again pushing the change. Reeves shook his head once more and stepped off the back of the rubber. I looked over at Dietrich and saw him flash a handful of signs.
Dietrich wanted the change, too.
I dropped my right hand to signal to Reeves, then paused. Wait, I considered. It was a change, Dietrich wanted, right? I stretched my neck side-to-side as Reeves, still set, restlessly turned the ball inside his glove.
Maybe, I thought, Dietrich wanted a fastball? No, a change was it. A change was better.
Dufrane asked for time and stepped out.
“We gonna play some time, or what?” he chirped.
Davis thundered over my shoulder. “For fuck’s sake. You guys gotta get it together. We’re cooking alive down here.” He pulled a small plate brush out of the front pocket of his ball bag and bent down to clean the dish. “Fuckin ’figure it out, goddamnit”
Noises and voices, broken and indistinct, tittered from the first few rows of seats that occupied the sparsely-populated, 53,000-seat stadium. There were 1,500 people—2,000 max—all seated in the lower bowl, and I could hear every one of them. I could sense—but not assemble—each fractured syllable hurled my way. Time stood still, and I troubled: It’s gotta be a change-up. The slider’s out. A change up, I thought, would be far better.
Then, as if funneled through a long, narrow opening, the stadium and all of its inhabitants were vacuum-sucked back into the present tense, and time carried on. Fractured syllables became whole again, and I felt a sudden, overwhelming sense urgency.
Dietrich’s voice stabbed through the thick-hanging humidity.
“Tyne!” he shouted. “You all right?”
I nodded.
He had to have meant change-up, I decided. A change was the only thing that made any sense.
I mumbled a half-reply to Davis, who never seemed happy about anything, and jogged out to the mound.
“I can’t throw an another change to Dufrane,” Reeves clamored as I approached the hill. “Not up 1-2.” He shook his head and pointed out to the sky above the right-field seats. “He’ll hit it in the fucking river.”
I smiled. “The river?” I replied. “Nah,” I added, “not the river. Maybe up off the lights or,” I pointed, “the scoreboard, but not the river. No way. The heat’ll hold it.”
Reeves stared at me and tried not to crack a smile. I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Look,” I continued. “There’s no way he’s not sitting dead red. A change’ll throw him off. He’ll jump and roll over.” I wiped my forehead. “No way Dufrane’s on the change up.”
I looked over at Dietrich again. He hadn’t come out. It had to be the change, I reasoned.
Dietrich whistled and took off his cap. You need me?
I shook my head and patted my chest protector. No. I got it.
Reeves toed at the dirt with his cleats. “So certain, Tyne Darling,” he said. “So fuckin’ certain.” Again, he glanced out to right-center, out toward the river. “Fine,” he sighed. “Then let’s go.”
I turned and hustled back behind home plate. I reset my mask and looked at Dietrich once more. He ran his right hand across his chest: Same call. He clapped and leaned against the dugout rail. “Alright, alright, alright,” he shouted. “Let’s do a thing, now”
Dufrane crowded the plate, his fingers still loose on the bat handle. I signaled to Reeves, who exhaled and shook me off.
No change up.
I stayed in my crouch and shrugged. Reeves straightened up and touched the bill of his cap.
Run through them again.
I did and indicated a change, same as before. Reeves nodded slowly, exhaled, and came home.
The ball tumbled out of Atticus Reeves’ hand cleanly. I watched it roll off his pinky and ring fingers. His elbow, though, was a bit too high, his shoulder elevated. I think Dufrane noticed these things, as well. He got loaded on time but waited just a bit longer than he might have if he hadn’t picked up the pitch. I had a small realization, a moment of panic: Atticus Reeves was right, a change-up was not the pitch to throw, in that moment, to Jeffrey Dufrane. Maybe, I worried, Dietrich actually wanted a fastball, and I fucked up the sign. Maybe, I considered, I’d gotten a little too confident. Believing in myself was, after all, tricky business.
The way Dufrane loaded, I knew he read the pitch just right. He got his foot down in rhythm, and his swing came swift, his hands inside, which allowed his core to rotate behind the barrel. He probably couldn’t have hit the pitch any better if I’d have set the ball on a tee.
***
Someone—and I’m not exactly sure who—decided that the regular Riverfront Stadium fence was simply too deep for us 15- and 16-year-olds. Maybe they wanted to condense the outfield real estate for our smaller, non-MLB-player frames. Maybe they wanted to prompt more action, more home runs and plays on the base paths. Whatever the reasons, those same folks positioned a temporary fence across the outfield, a blaze-orange fence that compressed the dimensions and stood like an awkward younger brother arced in front of the imposing, dark-green, 8-feet-tall Riverfront Stadium fence. The temporary fence shrank the park to roughly 330 feet at dead center—about 70 feet smaller than the normal, big-league dimension. The corners and power alleys shrank, too, pinched to about 300 and 310, respectively.
***
Dufrane’s smooth, left-handed swing pulled the ball into the power alley. I stood up behind the plate and watched the ball arc skyward. As I watched it sail, I thought about how I could’ve called Dietrich out to the mound when Reeves stepped off. I could’ve clarified the signs. Hell, I could’ve listened to Atticus Reeves; he was correct: A change-up was not the pitch to throw to Jeffrey Dufrane in that moment.
***
I glanced at Reeves. His eyes were locked on the ball. I’m pretty sure everyone in the stadium watched that ball as it flew with the perfect amount of backspin, backspin that carried it farther and farther still.
Dufrane shuffle-hopped down the first-base line as the ball landed well over the temporary fence, rocketed off of Riverfront’s hot astroturf, and then shot, on a single hop, over the permanent, right-centerfield fence.
It all happened so fluidly, so poetically, that it might have been humorous—hilarious, even—if it wasn’t for the lens of extreme seriousness we all had firmly glued to our perceptions. Dufrane’s team, however, thought it was the greatest, funniest thing they’d ever seen. Atticus Reeves, on the other hand, threw down his glove, and as I hung my head, I could feel the heat of his stare bore through my borrowed catcher’s helmet and boil the once-frozen cabbage leaf I’d tucked beneath.
About the Author
Tommy Vollman is a writer, musician, and painter. For many years, he was a baseball player. He has written a number of things, published a bit, recorded a few records, and toured a lot. Tommy’s work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. His stories and nonfiction have appeared in The Southwest Review, Two Cities Review, Hobart, The Southeast Review, Palaver, and Per Contra. He has some black-ink tattoos on both of his arms. Tommy really likes A. Moonlight Graham, Kurt Vonnegut, Two Cow Garage, Tillie Olsen, Willy Vlautin, and Albert Camus. He’s working on a short story collection and has a new record, “Brooklyn.” He currently teaches English at Milwaukee Area Technical College and prefers to write with pens poached from hotel room cleaning carts.